Nothing Ventured(4)
“I haven’t given up yet,” said Sir Julian.
“Just be thankful that at least our daughter has followed in your footsteps.”
“Grace has done nothing of the sort,” snorted Sir Julian. “That girl will defend any penniless no-hoper she comes across.”
“She has a heart of gold.”
“Then she takes after you,” said Sir Julian, studying the one clue his wife had failed to fill in: Slender private man who ended up with a baton. Five, seven, and four.
“Field Marshal Slim,” said Sir Julian triumphantly. “The only man to join the army as a private soldier and end up as a field marshal.”
“Sounds like William,” said Marjorie. But not until the door had closed.
2
William and Fred left the nick just after eight to set out on their morning patrol. “Not much crime at this time of day,” Fred assured the young probationer. “Criminals are like the rich, they don’t get up much before ten.” Over the past eighteen months William had become used to Fred’s oft-repeated pearls of wisdom, which had proved far more useful than anything to be found in the Met’s handbook on the duties of a police officer.
“When do you take your detective’s exam?” asked Fred as they ambled down Lambeth Walk.
“In a few weeks’ time,” replied William. “But I don’t think you’ll be getting rid of me quite yet,” he added as they approached the local newsagent. He glanced at the headline: “PC Yvonne Fletcher killed outside the Libyan Embassy.”
“Murdered, more like,” said Fred. “Poor lass.” He didn’t speak again for some time. “I’ve been a constable all my life,” he eventually managed, “which suits me just fine. But you—”
“If I make it,” said William, “I’ll have you to thank.”
“I’m not like you, Choirboy,” said Fred. William feared that he would be stuck with that nickname for the rest of his career. He preferred Sherlock. He had never admitted to any of his mates at the station that he had been a choirboy, and always wished he looked older, although his mother had once told him, “The moment you do, you’ll want to look younger.” Is no one ever satisfied with the age they are? he wondered. “By the time you become commissioner,” continued Fred, “I’ll be shacked up in an old people’s home, and you’ll have forgotten my name.”
It had never crossed William’s mind that he might end up as commissioner, although he felt sure he would never forget Constable Fred Yates.
Fred spotted the young lad as he came running out of the newsagent’s. Mr. Patel followed a moment later, but he was never going to catch him. William set off in pursuit, with Fred only a yard behind. They both overtook Mr. Patel as the boy turned the corner. But it was another hundred yards before William was able to grab him. The two of them led the young lad back to the shop, where he handed over a packet of Capstan to Mr. Patel.
“Will you be pressing charges, sir?” asked William, who already had his notebook open, pencil poised.
“What’s the point?” said the shopkeeper, placing the cigarette packet back on the shelf. “If you lock him up, his younger brother will only take his place.”
“It’s your lucky day, Tomkins,” said Fred, clipping the boy around the ear. “Just make sure you’re in school by the time we turn up, otherwise I might tell your old man what you were up to. Mind you,” he added, turning to William, “the fags were probably for his old man.”
Tomkins bolted. When he reached the end of the street he stopped, turned around and shouted, “Police scum!” and gave them both a ‘V’ sign.
“Perhaps you should have pinned his ears back.”
“What are you talking about?” asked Fred.
“In the sixteenth century, when a boy was caught stealing, he would be nailed to a post by one of his ears, and the only way he could escape was to tear himself free.”
“Not a bad idea,” said Fred. “Because I have to admit I can’t get to grips with modern police practice. By the time you retire, you’ll probably have to call the criminals ‘sir.’ Still, I’ve only got another eighteen months to go before I collect my pension, and by then you’ll be at Scotland Yard. Although,” Fred added, about to dispense his daily dose of wisdom, “when I joined the force nearly thirty years ago, we used to handcuff lads like that to a radiator, turn the heat full on, and not release them until they’d confessed.”
William burst out laughing.
“I wasn’t joking,” said Fred.
“How long do you think it will be before Tomkins ends up in jail?”
“A spell in borstal before he goes to prison, would be my bet. The really maddening thing is that once he’s locked up he’ll have his own cell, three meals a day, and be surrounded by career criminals who’ll be only too happy to teach him his trade before he graduates from the University of Crime.”
Every day William was reminded how lucky he’d been to be born in a middle-class cot, with loving parents and an older sister who doted on him. Although he never admitted to any of his colleagues that he’d been educated at one of England’s leading public schools before taking an art history degree at King’s College London. And he certainly never mentioned that his father regularly received large payments from some of the nation’s most notorious criminals.